The Light of Fire
by MagnoliaCrescent47
Summary: Nine year-old orphaned Sherlock Holmes has always known himself to be a genius and takes great pride in this label, but what happens when his intelligence attracts the leader of a crime syndicate? Will he be able to cope with his new life under Detective Inspector Lestrade's roof and simultaneously outsmart the organization or will he lose everything to them? Language, Abuse


Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

'_Thought.'_

"Speaking."

_Dream Sequence_

* * *

John whimpered into the darkness, eyes screwed shut as he struggled to fight off the terrifyingly familiar dream. His breath came in loud, uneven pants and sweat that had formed at his brow trailed down his face in small rivulets. A sharp, electric pain erupted in John's shoulder and the eight-year old cried out, clawing at it as if to tear away the ache. Moisture gathered at the corners of his closed eyes before mingling with perspiration and gliding down the boy's cheeks to disappear into the scratchy fabric of his pillow.

_John watched on in fear as his father wrenched the baseball bat from his weak grasp, turning to glare at John's mother whose hand was clasped softly around his own. He knew what was coming and without thinking, yanked at his mum's arm. Unfortunately though, he was not strong enough to move her from harm's way and it was too late. The bat connected with her jaw, a loud, sickening crack echoing in the small space of the dining room. _

"_I hate you," his father spat, eyeing her limp form distastefully. His lips curled into a sneer. "Who gave you the right to be so fucking happy?!" he screamed, raising the metal club to strike her again. _

_John choked as it landed against her ribs with enough force to break (he knew very well by now) four of them. She coughed and managed to stand, but not without leaning heavily on the wall for support. She turned to smile at her son, blue eyes warm and comforting._

"_John? Could you be my little helper tonight?"_

_John felt like he was frozen. He hadn't realized he had been crying until the tears fell from his chin and onto the floor, mixing with the dirt from his cleats to form little spots of mud. He nodded numbly, knowing that it would make her happy. _

"_Thanks, sweetie." She kneeled, gently pushing a few locks of hair away from his eyes. "Go get ready for bed and I'll tuck you in in a bit. Think you can do that for me?"_

"_Y-yes," he stammered, glancing at his father who had his back to them. "I love you, Mum," he sobbed, searching her eyes for reassurance. Her kind gaze was focused solely on John as she replied._

"_I love you so much, sweetheart."_

…

_When John returned to find his mother, he was breathless. His heart sunk into his stomach as he found her lying unmoving on the floor. He rushed to her side, shaking her gently._

"_Mum?" She didn't respond. "Mum?!" John tried a little more frantically. "W-wake up!" Why wasn't she moving?! She had always woken up when he found her like this! Why didn't she now?!_

_A low, bitter chuckle jerked John from his hysteria. He could see his father's silhouetted figure stalking towards him from across the room._

"_She's dead, John."_

_John couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. His vision was blurred by tears. Before he could stop it, a heart wrenching sob broke in his throat._

"_No! She can't be; she's just sleeping! Mum!" He slapped a palm to her chest and lowered his ear to her lips. He fumbled with her wrist, feeling for the faint drum of her pulse. He'd taught himself how to find it years ago._

_Nothing._

"_Mum, please! Stop it!" he screamed, his cries muffled against his mother's lightly perfumed neck. _

_John immediately stiffened as his father set a firm hand on his shoulder. When he spoke, his words were distant and strained. _

"_Don't worry. You'll see her soon enough."_

_John blacked out when the titanium bat bludgeoned the shoulder his father's hand had been resting on only moments prior. He suddenly felt very foolish. _

_Foolish for having thought that winning his first baseball game would make his father well again._

_Foolish for having thought that he could've ever helped anyone at all._

…

John awoke with a start, shooting straight out of bed and immediately regretting it. He rubbed his throbbing head tenderly where it'd struck against the low ceiling of the bottom bunk. He shivered as he realized that his entire torso was drenched in cool sweat. Embarrassingly, his cheeks were damp and eyes were puffy from crying again. The room was shrouded in darkness, but John could make out Sherlock's form on the other side of it.

Ignoring the sudden wave of nausea that churned in his stomach, John swung his legs onto the ground and stumbled towards his friend. He treaded lightly on the squeaky floorboards, not wanting to wake any of the other children in the room. When he reached Sherlock's bedside, he waited, rubbing awkwardly at his neck.

For a moment, nothing happened and John was beginning to worry that he'd be forced to return to his bed (not that he'd ever admit it), but then he heard the familiar rustling of sheets. He didn't even have to look up to know that Sherlock was creating some space for him to lie down in. Relieved, John crawled onto and under the covers, his side forced against Sherlock's. The blonde-headed boy pulled the blankets up to his chest and stared at the ceiling.

"It was the one about Mum's d-," John muttered the word with difficulty, "death."

Sherlock didn't reply for some time and if he hadn't known any better, John would've thought that he'd fallen asleep.

"Anything unusual?" the anticipated question came at length.

John swallowed. "There wasn't any blood this time."

Sherlock pulled away from him and John wondered if he'd said anything he shouldn't have. When his eyes locked with Sherlock's, though, he knew that wasn't the case. Sherlock was studying him. His eyes flickered from John's eyes to his tattered pyjama shirt to his sweat-soaked hair and back again. The younger boy flushed under the scrutiny. He'd seen Sherlock fix that same, analytical look on dozens of people, but rarely was it directed at him. It was unnerving to say the least. Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and slid from the bed, his companion forced to follow.

"Hey! What are you-?"

The older boy looked to him, placing a finger against his lips as an indication for John to shut his own. John frowned but allowed himself to be pulled from the room and into the hallway. When Sherlock led him towards the window in the bathroom though, he hesitated. The older boy quirked an eyebrow at his companion. John, having known Sherlock as well as - if not better - than himself, understood its meaning without a second thought.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," he said, glancing at the window warily.

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course it's a good idea. It's _my_ idea."

John bit his lip. "What if we're caught?"

Sherlock turned towards the window and began to climb out of it, disregarding John. "Suit yourself."

John's eyes widened as his friend dropped from the sill.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, running to it. They were on the third floor; what was he thinking?!

"Relax," Sherlock called from his position on the roof just below. "Don't wait up." He disappeared down the side of the building.

"No – wait – Sherlock!" John hurriedly moved to the window. He shivered as the cold night air poured onto his skin. Goose bumps broke out across his arms, but he ignored them. Steeling himself, the blonde pushed – one at a time – two pale legs through the opening. He took a deep breath and glanced at the landing beneath him. Luckily, it wasn't too far away, but it wasn't exactly a small drop either. Carefully, John shifted further and further off the ledge until he could do little else but grit his teeth and let himself fall. He winced as he landed, a jolt running through his ankles and shins. Quickly shaking the sensation away, he stood and peered over the building to search for Sherlock who was leaning calmly against a nearby street lamp.

"Sherlock!" John whisper-yelled, feeling ridiculous and increasingly agitated. The older boy looked at him, the warm glow of the towering light illuminating his bored expression.

"You certainly take your time." John was just about to start on him when Sherlock interrupted. "Don't trouble yourself. I'm sure you're not going to say anything I haven't heard before." He turned away from John and dug his hands into his pyjama pockets. "There's a ladder on your right. It's bolted to the house."

John huffed, but a few minutes later he was standing beside Sherlock. Sherlock began walking along the sidewalk, John following a little ways behind him. He wondered what would happen if he clocked Sherlock in the head right then, but pushed the thought away before the temptation became too great.

"Where are we going?" he asked, matching his pace with Sherlock's.

No reply.

"Fine," he muttered curtly, but inwardly groaned. There was no way this was going to end well.

. . .

"We're here," Sherlock announced, coming to a halt.

John squinted into the darkness, but it was no use. "I can't see anything."

Sherlock sighed in irritation. "You don't have to see to know where we are." Honestly, John could be so dense at times.

"Yeah, well," the blonde boy replied, clearly annoyed, "just because I don't have superpowers - ."

"Superpowers?" Sherlock squawked. "Is that what you think?"

"There's no other way to explain it!" John crossed his arms and attempted to glare at Sherlock even though he knew it wouldn't be visible.

"You simply don't observe."

"I do too!"

"No."

"Yes!"

"No."

"Sherlock, I do!" John huffed petulantly, stomping his foot.

"Oh really?"

John didn't need the aid of light to know that Sherlock was smirking at him. John could hit himself. He'd walked right into Sherlock's trap without even realizing it. Not one to back down from a challenge (especially regarding Sherlock), though, John nodded resolutely.

"Definitely."

Sherlock smirked. "Then tell me John. Where are we?"

John hesitated. Sherlock was always telling him that he failed to notice the details. This time though, he was determined to prove him wrong. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

_'Focus on the details.'_

There was gooseflesh covering his whole body now. Maybe the temperature had dropped? He remembered being quite alright five minutes ago, so that was really the only plausible explanation. They had to be somewhere where the temperature differentiation was noticeable, but not extreme. So then - ? John jumped, remembering something he'd read in a book once. The air surrounding lakes, rivers, and oceans was usually cooler and thicker than that in the midst of a city or town. Definitely a body of water then, but which one? John could smell salt in the breeze and lakes and rivers were fresh water landmarks - !

"The ocean," John proclaimed matter-of-factly.

Sherlock sighed. "Wrong. As I said before, you fail to observe."

John floundered. "But - !"

"A few degrees colder and intensified humidity? Water, obviously. That much you've deduced, but that salty scent doesn't come from the ocean, but more likely from the seafood restaurant around the corner. The rocks beneath our feet aren't broken down enough to be categorized as sand. They're pebbles, but the surfaces are smooth and worn unlike those found near lakes. If you'd listened closely, you'd have heard the current as well as the clear sound the water makes. It's extraordinarily different from the undistinguishable moans of the ocean. Use your head. We're at the mouth of the Thames River."

Sherlock said this as if he were stating the obvious because to him, it very well was. John could feel his anger ebb as his chest filled with awe. Sherlock's deductions were nothing new to him, but even so, he couldn't help but be impressed. And a little jealous.

"Showoff," John pouted, kicking a small stone.

"Of course. What's the point of being smart if no one appreciates you for it?"

John shook his head exasperatedly. "I'm going back," he said, walking in the direction he assumed the orphanage was.

"John, wait - ."

But he had already taken a step too far. John fell gracelessly into the freezing water, soaking every inch of his body. A wet, blonde head breeched the surface, coughing and sputtering.

"I tried to warn you." Sherlock went to John, crouching in front of him. He offered his hand and at the sight of the blonde's dubious look, rolled his eyes. "Well don't just stand there like an idiot."

John's gaze narrowed. He swiftly took hold of Sherlock's arm and yanked him into the river. When the older boy resurfaced, John was smirking. "Who's the idiot now?"

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock grimaced, splashing John while simultaneously trying to get as far away from him as possible. John swam after him, taking Sherlock by the shoulders and pushing him back under the water. Sherlock wrestled him off and rose for air.

"Will you stop that?!" he yelled, shoving John roughly away. The younger orphan recovered quickly and smacked the brunette on the head.

Sherlock cuffed him in the neck.

John jabbed him on the forehead.

Sherlock hit him in the chest.

In a matter of seconds, the two were punching, kicking, and clouting each other on every place possible. They carried on like this for a while, but eventually had to stop. Gasping, John and Sherlock both tried to catch their breath.

"Is there a convenient store nearby?" John asked, panting.

Sherlock wasn't much better. "Down the – ha – street."

They both crawled onto the shore, too tired to move with any efficiency.

John's teeth chattered relentlessly. "I'm cold," he whined.

Sherlock glared at him sideways. "It's _your_ fault we're drenched."

The blonde growled weakly. "Sod off."

Sherlock was the first to stand, wet clothes clinging to his thin frame. Wordlessly, he peeled his soggy pajama shirt and trousers off. John couldn't help but stare. Sherlock was so . . . perfect. His face, arms, legs, chest, stomach, and back were all flawless. Sherlock's skin was a creamy, even white while John's was a dirty, uneven tan sort of colour. His flesh was marked and branded, not pretty like Sherlock's. Where the older boy's hair was a rich, wavy mahogany brown, John's was a mutty shade of blonde. Sherlock's eyes were quick and intelligent. John's were common and dull. There was so much mystery surrounding Sherlock; so much to uncover.

Speaking of uncovering, John blushed as he realized that Sherlock was in nothing but his pants. He immediately looked away, feeling the other orphan's omniscient gaze boring into him. Attempting to shake off the stare, John stood but couldn't bring himself to strip with Sherlock's eyes still following his every move.

"I'll wait by the road," John announced hastily. Sherlock watched him speed clumsily towards the street before shrugging his clothes back on. He was freezing, but the convenient store was close by. Maybe this time they would make it there without incident.

. . .

As was to be expected at three o'clock in the morning, the shops lining the city were all empty with the exception of the few cashiers that occupied the minority of them. Sherlock and John had been lucky in avoiding the police or anyone else who might report the two thus far, but they were cautionary nonetheless. John thought it better to hide in the alleys and keep to the dark parts of London but as Sherlock pointed out, they would get nowhere with that approach. Better to act as though nothing were wrong. So with the confidence befitting a grown man, Sherlock pulled open the door to the convenient store and marched in. John followed after him, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The warm air welcomed them and John relished it while he could. Decidedly avoiding the cashier, John trailed Sherlock to the back of the aisles.

"Sherlock, we haven't any money," John reminded as the older boy plucked an item from the shelf. Sherlock ignored him, grabbing a piece of licorice and taffy among other things. Once he had an armful of wares, he made his way to the front, John following uncertainly. An old woman stood behind the counter, smiling at them kindly.

"What are two young boys like yourselves doing out at this hour?"

John struggled to think of something, _anything_ to tell her.

"Our parents sent us to fetch a few things," Sherlock lied. He was smiling up at the cashier.

"Oh really? That's very sweet of you," the old woman laughed wheezily, ringing up their purchases. "That'll be nine pounds and seven pence."

Sherlock nodded sweetly and handed her a ten pound note. She gave him the change, John grabbing their bag of things.

"Hurry home, now. You mustn't wander at this time of night."

"Yes ma'am," Sherlock and John both said, departing the shop with a quiet "thank you."

Once outside and a good distance away from the place, John grinned at Sherlock.

"Not a word," the brunette grumbled, stopping to sit on the curb. John plopped down to join him. He rifled through the plastic bag on his arm.

"What's all this?" the blonde asked, staring at the bug spray and Chap Stick he'd taken from it.

Sherlock shrugged. "We didn't have any."

'_That's because we don't need any,' _John thought, but wasn't about to start an argument over something so trivial. "So what are you going to do with all this other stuff?"

"I don't much care for sweets so you can have those. I do want the rope though."

"Rope?" John rummaged through the contents Sherlock had bought and pulled out a medium-length, thick piece of rope. It looked long enough to practice knots with, but seemed like it would be useful for little else. It was coarse and sturdy and definitely not a thing made for decoration, but Sherlock had an admiration for impractical things so he handed it over without inquiry. There were a few truffles left in the bag for John which he ate happily.

John rarely got to leave the orphanage and never for an outing like this. London was a busy city, always bustling with life. It was a seldom peaceful like this. The occasional drunk stumbled out of a nearby bar and once in a while a taxi passed by the two, but other than that, the night was calm.

"We don't have to go back." John was surprised to hear the words coming from his own mouth.

Sherlock stared at him seriously, stoic as always. Silver blue eyes searched his relentlessly, digging deeper and deeper until John felt as though he were utterly transparent.

The sound of a car door slamming shut stole the boys' attention from each other. John's blood ran cold as he realized that it belonged to a Scotland Yard officer.

"Don't tense up. They're watching us."

The officer had brandished his badge and was now talking with the old woman cashier outside the door of the convenient store. She pointed to the two of them and the man, assumedly thanking her, advanced towards the boys.

"Shit," Sherlock swore. "We're going to have to run. Come on, John."

They didn't get very far before someone was grabbing them roughly by their collars.

"And where do you think you're going?" their capturer sneered.

"Anderson."

The Scotland Yard officer was a little more than twenty feet away, but Sherlock could see him clearly. He wasn't exactly young, but not old either. The nine year-old guessed him to be anywhere in his mid-forties to early fifties. His silver hair was short and slightly askew, but not unkempt. There were shallow bags framing his haggard brown eyes. It was obvious he hadn't slept well for the past week – a combination of long work shifts and the bouts of insomnia that kept him awake on his nights off. His trousers were dirty at the hems, his shoes covered in mud, but his hands remarkably clean sans the bits of ink dotting his right thumb. Detective Inspector, then.

"They're just kids." He sighed in exasperation. "So stop clutching at them like that."

"But, sir - !"

"_Now_, Anderson," the older man ordered.

Anderson grumbled, but dropped his grip on the boys. John rubbed at his neck shakily. Sherlock, now free, fixed "Anderson" with a cold glare.

Anderson peered down at Sherlock. "What do _you _want?"

Sherlock studied him distastefully. Long nose, beady eyes, thin lips, stupid hair, ugly sweater. "You should consider returning those clothes to your grandmother."

Anderson gawked at him. "Why you - !" he cried indignantly, before turning abruptly to Lestrade, "did you just hear what he said to me?!"

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair impatiently. "Go wait in the car. And don't argue with me," he added when it looked like he was about to.

With one last glower at Sherlock, Anderson stomped off. Lestrade ignored him.

"So," he started, crouching down to speak to them levelly, "what are you two doing out of bed?"

Sherlock knew that it would be silly to make up an excuse at this point. They'd been caught and this man was too intelligent to be fooled by a charade like the one he'd pulled at the convenient store. In retrospect, they could've been a little more careful, but it would do them no good now.

"We were getting some things for our parents," John answered quickly. Sherlock mentally sighed. John's hands were sticky with chocolate, their wrappers littered the area around them, and they'd been sitting on the sidewalk casually when Lestrade and Anderson had pulled up. Not to mention John and Sherlock appeared to have nothing in common least of all parents. Of the dozens of scenarios John could've fabricated, this had to be one of the worst.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, eying the crumpled mess next to the blonde-headed boy. "Will they be mad that you ate all of their candy?"

John was scowling at the ground. He'd apparently realized the transparency of his ridiculous subterfuge.

"Come on. Let's get you home." He stood, following the boys to the car in case one of them made a dash for it. That was doubtful, though. It didn't seem like they'd give him much trouble.

Anderson was sulking when they climbed in, arms crossed childishly across his chest. Sherlock smirked at him in the review mirror. It was pleasing to see the cocky bastard so unhappy. He regarded John who was still berating himself. Sherlock offered him no sympathy. Instead, a smile curved his lips. John may not be very happy right now, but this was the most excited he'd been in ages.

. . .

"Donovan!" Lestrade called, tapping his foot impatiently. He waited another thirty seconds before turning sharply on Anderson. "Go find her." Anderson scurried off. "And be quick about it!" Lestrade called unnecessarily after him.

He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to sooth his frustration. Not only was he short-staffed, but now he had to take care of the Police's business as well. Wandering children didn't exactly fall under the responsibilities of Scotland Yard.

"You wanted me, sir?" Donovan stopped directly in front of him, her smart heels clicking together noisily.

"Took you bloody long enough," Lestrade grumped.

"Sorry, sir. I was - ."

"Doesn't matter," he interrupted, waving off her excuse. "Search the data base for those boys' addresses and take them home, will you?" He gestured to Sherlock and John who were seated in a couple of chairs against the wall. "I don't think they'll give you much trouble, but watch out for the dark-haired one. He's got a bit of a temper."

Donovan nodded. She knew that it probably wasn't a good time to bother her superior with questions, but curiosity got the better of her. "Isn't this something the police would usually take care of?"

"Yes, but they've got their hands full right now so we're helping them out. You should have this wrapped up fairly quickly anyways." Lestrade waved a hand at her and disappeared into his office. There was still paperwork to be done.

. . .

The shrill ringing of his mobile woke Lestrade. He didn't remember falling asleep at his desk, but his eyes were heavy and his vision, blurred. He dug the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, not bothering to check the Caller I.D.

"Hello?" he answered, clearing his throat when his voice cracked.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector Lestrade." The man's tone was unfamiliar; a rich mahogany, deep and powerful.

Lestrade straightened in his chair, composed as if he hadn't been dead to the world just moments prior. His mind raced back to any and all previous cases involving deranged, psychopathic kidnappers almost automatically. He tensed further and moved to track the call. "Who is this?"

There was a low chuckle. "I know what you're doing. Don't bother; if you want my location, I'll willingly tell you but soon I think that that will be the furthest thing from your mind."

Lestrade stiffened, glancing warily around the room. "And why's that?"

Another laugh, this one strange and mirthless. "I need you to look after something for me."

. . .

Sherlock stared flatly at Sally Donovan. She'd been questioning them for over an hour now, if you could even call it that. Her patronizing tone rubbed him the wrong way and he sat there, arms crossed firmly across his chest. If it was any consolation though (and it was), Sally's control had almost entirely evaporated.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, boys," she ground out, failing to keep the acerbic bite from her words, "what are your names?"

Luckily, John was also refusing to speak. He was watching Sargent Donovan a bit regretfully though Sherlock had absolutely no idea why. The woman was a witch; rude, wicked, and dishonest. Judging by the state of her hair and disheveled trousers, she'd been shoved up against the wall of broom closet not three hours ago by – Sherlock scanned the room, frowning in disgust when he found the only other person with a similar appearance – Anderson. Who was married. Sally Donovan was officially intolerable.

"I'll take it from here, Donovan," came a familiar voice. Sherlock by no means _liked _Lestrade, but he'd take him over this inane woman any day. When he regarded the Inspector, though, there was something queer about the way he looked at himself and John, like he knew something he hadn't when he picked them up. Lestrade looked to be inspecting them further. He must've realized something because his eyes widened very slightly in what Sherlock recognized as surprise. "What have you gotten yourselves into? You're clothes are soaked!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Brilliant," he congratulated sardonically, thoroughly unimpressed. John hid his snicker in a well-placed cough.

Lestrade pocketed the insult. So he wanted to play it that way, did he? The DI addressed Anderson who was lazing on the couch uselessly. "There are blankets in the back closet. Bring me one . . . if you're not too busy that is," he added shortly when the Forensics officer had yet to move from the sofa. Anderson grimaced, but left the room, Sally following him in what she seemed to think was an unobtrusive manner.

"Excuse me, Inspector, but what's going to happen to us?" John inquired, expecting the worst.

"I'm taking you back to Queen Hobson's Orphanage," Lestrade replied honestly.

John started. "How did you - ?"

"The ears, John. Look at the ears."

John did as advised and, while the correct conclusion was very obvious to Sherlock, John took a bit more time to catalogue his thoughts. When he finished though, John's assumption was delightfully accurate. "He's been on his mobile?"

"Good." Sherlock was pleased.

"Someone told him about us." John spoke to Sherlock, but his eyes were still trained on Lestrade.

'_How had they known?' _Sherlock mocked in his head, knowing that to be the exact question Lestrade was asking himself. The boy interjected before he could protest.

"There's no use lying, Inspector, so please don't bother."

Anderson came with the blanket, handing it grumpily to his superior. The inspector took it calmly, but Sherlock could tell that he was bristling beneath his skin. Lestrade turned his back to them.

"Come on, boys." Lestrade was walking to the front desk. He grabbed his keys and shrugged on his jacket while Sherlock and John stood from their seats. The Inspector gave John the blanket Anderson had retrieved without so much as a backward glance at Sherlock. The brunette glared at the back of the man's head knowing full well that Lestrade was agitating him on purpose. He refused to accept the wrap when John offered it – not out of kindness but sheer determination. Let Lestrade have his fun now. This was sure to be the only time he'd have a leg up on Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you always have to be so stubborn?" John laughed tiredly as they slid into the Lestrade's car.

"I'm not stubborn. Other people are just never right."

"Of course," John said, gazing out of the tinted window.

The engine started, they pulled away from the curb, and Scotland Yard HQ began to slowly disappear. John closed his eyes and fell back against the seat. He could feel the tempting allure of sleep wash over him and gratefully, he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the very first chapter of "The Light of Fire" :) I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, but reviews are lovely and they inspire to write and get installments posted quickly so please feel free to leave one! Anything you did like, didn't like, loved, hated, felt alright about, want to see happen? I'm dying to know :D Thanks so much!

-MC47


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